The Early Years

Published March 15, 2016 by dividinguplife

Earlier today, while on my lunch break, I wrote my introductory post, which can be found here. I have been in the writing mood for the past few days. Currently my daughter is laying on the couch, asking me pointless questions because that’s what she likes to do …. so my thought process keeps getting interrupted. “Why are there two mirrors and a clock up there?” “Why can’t you go upstairs to get your book and grab my charger at the same time?” Pffftt, not a maid. I just worked all day. What I would give to go back to sixth grade. Scratch that, sixth grade was hell. I wouldn’t pay myself to go back to that. I think my entire years of school were hell. I was made fun of for my hair, my acne, my weight (and I wasn’t even really overweight in school) … I just wasn’t from the right side of the tracks. I grew up in a trailer park, and while I was an extremely likable kid, once my friends parents found out where I live, sleepovers just didn’t happen anymore. 

When I was born, my father tried to give me up for adoption pretty much as soon as I shot out of my mom’s womb. The idiot didn’t stop to think that you had to have consent from the parent that actually did the grunting and pushing-out of said child. He made it known to my mother that he wanted nothing to do with me. She told him to fuck off. It was probably one of the few right decisions she ever made. Then again, maybe I would have been adopted into a normal family had she of just given me up. From my earliest memories, she partied a lot. The first time I saw a man beat her, I was four years old. I was carrying my toys to my room and he screamed at her, she ran, he caught up with her and slammed her against the backdoor of our trailer, and lifted her up by her neck. I was standing right there screaming and crying. She told him to pack his shit and get out, and then we locked ourselves in my room while she chain smoked her Virginia Slim Super Slim menthols. Prior to that, we lived with my uncle in the trailer next door, she ended up pregnant with a married man’s baby, and gave him up for adoption because she couldn’t afford him – and of course the married man wasn’t going to leave his wife, ever. I think they are still married to this day. My uncle went through treatment for Leukemia, beat it, and then was killed in a car accident his past July. Forty-five years old, cancer survivor, healthy as a horse, and some asshole seventeen year old didn’t check his blind spot and sent my uncle screaming into a light pole. He was one of the few stable men in my life. I miss him. 

After a few more bumps in the road, my mom finally met my step-dad and they were married. He legally adopted me (my birth father had no qualms about signing over his rights), and things settled down for the most part for the next seven years. They had a child (my brother is one of the other stable men in my life), and then she did what she always does, and ended up cheating on him. She left him, and in return he left me. Here and there, throughout the last seventeen years he was in and out of my life – mostly when I pushed the issue. But, at the end of the day I was the daughter of my mother, and I always would be. There’s no room in his life for me. He has another wife (wife number 4) and two additional kids. Whenever he talks about his two boys and his little girl, he always refers to her being his ‘only’ and ‘first’ daughter. I am nothing to him. I have a half-sister from my biological father. He is in her life much more than mine, though not as much as she would like. She’s beautiful and skinny, and everything I guess I’m not. He calls her on her birthday, buys her gifts, goes to her house for dinner and family get-together’s. I’ve been invited out of politeness, on the holiday’s, from my half-sisters grandmother, but I don’t go. I don’t like sitting across from my half-sister knowing that she’s the chosen one, that she is everything I am not, and that I’m just some extra limb on the family tree that everyone forgot. 

My mother and I don’t talk very often. She’s very vindictive and will spin a lie faster than you could even think of one. She doesn’t mind painting the picture of her children being horrible people. She does whatever she can to get money out of others. My mom has had cancer more times, and in more forms than anyone can imagine. She should have died about ten times by now with the amount of cancer she supposedly has. When I was a teenager, she told an out-of-state friend (a man that she was stringing along that used to live close by) that I had cancer and she couldn’t afford my treatments. He was sending her tens of thousands of dollars. I found out about it one day while snooping through her drawer, in a letter that he had written her about how my cancer treatments were going. He just so happened to include his new phone number at the bottom of the letter, and I called him. I told him I was healthy, that my mom was dating a man and had been for many years, that I had a brother, that she had been previously married – all of these things he didn’t know. As it turned out, there was a check on the way, and he told me to let her know that if she cashed it, he would have her thrown in jail. I remember the pleasure I had in telling my mother that I knew, that he knew, and that her money supply was cut off. I don’t think she ever forgave me of that. But I can’t imagine telling someone that my daughter has cancer, when she most certainly does not. 

My brother got married last year to a pretty awesome woman. It was only a few months before my mom was telling everyone that he was cheating on her. That was the end of the relationship between my mother and my brother. Though she swears she didn’t say anything, she told my grandmother about it and that’s how everyone started to find out what she was saying. She lies and lies, manipulates and twists things, and then plays victim when everyone turns their back on her. She has done countless drugs in many forms, slept around, doing god only knows what for money. Now she’s living in a run-down trailer with some construction worker that smokes pot, and at the age of 48, she has no teeth. According to her, on some days, she still has some kind of cancer, and only days to live. But that’s only on the days she’s feeling particularly bad about her life and wants some pity. 

I swear there are some days that I wonder how in the hell I even turned out semi-normal. I know people have had it harder than me, but damn man. Life shouldn’t be something you have to survive, should it?

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